The Record of the Saints Caliber (35 page)

The castle was colder and darker than Etheil remembered it. It had been nearly five years since he had been back in Durtania, and truth be told he wished he could stay longer and relax in the royal gardens alone with Solastron. Up north, at the edge of the Blue Wilds in the towers of the Grimwatch, there were no flowers. Only ice and gray skies as far as the eye could see, broken only by the dull gray-blue pines of the forests to the south. Here in the city of Durtania the colors of nature seemed to explode and Etheil had begun to remember that there was more to this world than ice and demons. It was good seeing the townsmen and villagers too. It helped Etheil remember that his sacrifices in the far north meant something; that there was a greater purpose to his being there than constant watch and battle.

As Etheil strode down the lonely corridor he lamented the fact that he would have to return to the Grimwatch without Brandrir. Etheil had grown up in the castle and Brandrir had always been like a brother to him. Even after his father, Fameil, betrayed Duroton and tried to give the Mard Grander to the Kald, Brandrir remained his friend. In fact, Etheil owed his entire life to Brandrir. After his father’s betrayal, his mother, Ethamay, was put to the sword and he too would have been if not for Brandrir. Such high treason called for his entire family’s death, but Brandrir had pled with his father, King Garidrir, to spare him.

Etheil knew he hadn’t exactly been spared. King Garidrir sentenced him to spend a long night in the Blue Wilds, which was basically banishment and death by the Lands themselves. An 8-year old boy alone and without so much as a pair of shoes left to the Blue Wilds certainly didn’t stand a chance. Had it not been for that giant, blue wolf with the amethyst stripes he certainly wouldn’t be alive today.

Etheil smiled to himself and wondered where Solastron had run off to. That giant wolf had saved him from the Wilds all those years ago. Solastron had carried him all the way back to Durtania on his back. Very few ever survived a sentence to spend a long night in the Wilds, and when he returned there was much surprise. It was deemed that the Lands of Duroton had themselves spared him and sent the wolf as a guardian. Some had even said that the wolf was the very spirit of Duroton. Etheil found himself something of a celebrity at first, but it wasn’t long before the names “wolf boy” and “dog-sniffer” were said with increasing venom.

Since his father’s betrayal, Etheil had never been liked around the castle. When he turned ten, he was sent—banished really—to the Grimwatch and Brandrir had followed, much to the King’s chagrin. Six years ago, when he turned nineteen, Brandrir asked his father to anoint him a Knight of the Dark Star. The King agreed, hoping that it would allay Brandrir of some of his worries and he’d come home for good and finally start learning how to run the kingdom. He didn’t, and that was just further salt in the King’s wound.

Etheil knew that the King had never forgiven him for his father’s sins, and Brandrir staying at the Grimwatch with him was just insult upon injury. Here in Durtania Etheil knew he was despised by almost everybody, not least of which were the King and Council. And so he found himself wondering why King Garidrir had requested his presence.

Etheil figured it had something to do with the Rising of the Phoenix ceremony tomorrow. If he had to guess, the King was going to tell him to congratulate Brandrir on the crown and to go back to the Grimwatch and never return or speak to his son again.

Etheil sighed. He didn’t really mind going back to the Grimwatch. At least there he was liked and respected by the men. He just wished he could stay here in Durtania—his childhood home—just a while longer. He half hoped that after tomorrow’s ceremonies the newly crowned King Brandrir would ask him to stay here a while, but deep down he knew how much the Grimwatch meant to Brandrir and he knew he’d have to get back right away. It was something of a miracle that Brandrir had even come to Durtania to accept the crown. There were even bets amongst the men of the Grimwatch as to whether he’d come for the Rising of the Phoenix, and more than a few men would be richer had Etheil himself not talked Brandrir into coming. As much as the men all wanted Brandrir to stay, and as much as Etheil himself wanted Brandrir to stay, he knew that the future of Duroton truly rested in Brandrir’s hands.

Etheil’s earliest memories were of his father and mother reading him the ancient tales and legends of Duroton. They were the only memories of his parents that Etheil truly had. His love of the old myths and tales never died and he had shared them with Brandrir over the years. King Garidrir and Dagrir were good men, but Etheil knew they did not share the same love as Brandrir for the old ways. Etheil knew that if Duroton ever had a chance to be brought back to its roots, it lied within Brandrir alone. Like himself, Brandrir could see Duroton slipping into the ways of the southern kingdoms.

Etheil sighed. What did the King want with him?

Though he wore full plate armor beneath his black shroud, Etheil passed as silently as a specter through the castle. The Rising of the Phoenix ceremony was tomorrow, and he thought it odd how quiet and empty this part of the castle was. He had not been in Durtania for many years, but he recalled the castle having been bustling with nobles and servants. Even his childhood memories were of a castle well lit and buzzing with activity. Etheil knew nobles from all over Duroton were here for tomorrow’s ceremony. Where were they all?

Etheil made his way up many floors and through the grand halls of the castle until he found himself in the King’s Quarter. It was a massive, pillared chamber, lined by marble statues of the Thorodin bloodline. A red carpet ran down the length of it and narrow windows upon either side let in streaming sunlight. At the end of the hall six Royal Guards in their trademark white armor stood to either side of a towering doorway. The Guardsmen did not greet Etheil as he came. They just opened the doors, revealing the royal suites beyond. Etheil looked at the blank-faced guards, thinking it odd that the chambers beyond were darkened but for the diffuse light streaming through the stained glass windows on either side. Without a word, Etheil strode past them.

There was a mustiness here; a staleness to the air that Etheil did not ever recall sensing before. He knew that King Garidrir was ailing, but he thought the air held more foreboding than malady. Suddenly, Etheil felt apprehension grip him and his hand found the red-jeweled pommel of his broadsword that hung at his side. Etheil’s stride slowed as the end of the hall came into view from the shadows. There, a great wooden door stood with two Royal Guardsmen at either side. Past the visors of their great helms Etheil could sense their eyes upon him and he knew something wasn’t right. The guards were more tense than they should be, and Etheil could see them both grasping the handles of their halberds tightly.

Etheil approached slowly and took down the black hood that covered his head, revealing his face to the guards. His long, golden hair draped over his shoulders and his blue-gray eyes tried to peer through the guards’ visors. He stopped a short distance away from the doorway and bowed slightly. “King Garidrir has requested my presence,” said Etheil softly.

The guards clacked their halberds loudly upon the stone floor, as was customary before the King’s chamber, and then pulled open the doors. Etheil peered into the dark room warily. The only light from within came from a drawn curtain that was obscured by shadowy silhouettes. Etheil eyed the stoned-faced guards for a moment before striding past them and into the room beyond.

Here there was a smell of stale urine and sour breath. It was warm inside for such a dark room. As the doors clanked shut behind him Etheil’s eyes found the shadowy form of the king laying upon his great bed. He could hear raspy breaths from him, but did not see him stir. There were other shadows standing around the bed as well. Seven forms that he could count. Beyond them, in the darker distance, he could see a pair of tall, shrouded figures and knew that they were Dark Star Knights like himself.

Cautiously he stepped forward. “My Liege,” said Etheil softly. He bent to a knee, placing his black, gauntleted hands upward upon the stone floor.

“Rise,” said a voice from the bed so hoarse that Etheil was scarcely sure he heard it.

He stood up slowly. “My Liege, you have requested my presence?”

“Yes,” came the hoarse voice, this time a little louder, and Etheil was certain it was the King. “Yes, I have.” The King fell into a short coughing fit where at the end he grunted and hacked and Etheil could hear spit, heavy and wet, hit the stone floor. “Forgive the darkness of the room,” rasped the King. “Light hurts my eyes.”

“Understood, my Liege,” said Etheil softly, giving a slight bow. He eyed the figures around the bed suspiciously. He could see they were men, most of them rotund and well dressed. Through the shadows he could make out a few facial features, and realized that they were the Councilmen.

“Raise the light a little,” barked the King in his terrible, cracking voice before falling into another coughing fit.

One of the figures beyond the bed reached over to the wall. Etheil heard a couple pops as an ignition button was hit. Then a pair of gas lamps on either side of the King’s bed flickered to life, bathing the room in their soft, yellow-green glow.

Now for the first time Etheil could see that the men were indeed the Council. Balin with his sharp beard stood closest to the bed. Beside him stood the fat Gefjon. Jord, Hymnar, Baldir, Aldur and Rankin were there too. Beyond them, looming in the background like shrouded statues, stood Lord Egret and his lieutenant, Lord Gregin. Etheil thought it odd that the two should be here.

Lord Gregin had one of the most austere presences of any man Etheil had ever met. His face seemed to be molded into a permanent scowl and his dark eyes were unblinking as he stared Etheil down. He was shorter and stockier than Egret and had his arms folded over his chest, revealing the tidal-wave designs painted up the arms of his black armor. His dark-red hair fell in heavy locks upon his shrouded shoulders and his crimson beard was done up in a number of tight braids that cascaded off his chin and onto his chest.

Etheil nodded his head slightly in greeting, but only Lord Egret returned it in kind, though his face was as stern and unflinching as Gregin’s own. Etheil began to realize why the castle had been so quiet. There was a good chance that this encounter wasn’t meant to end well for him.

Etheil turned his eyes to the bed. The King lay there in white pajamas. Upon the collar and chest Etheil noticed speckles of red and pink stains. The pillow his head was propped up on was similarly stained. The King looked up at Etheil with milky eyes, his mouth hanging open and a terrible wheezing coming from him. Etheil had always known the King to be of broad shoulder and strong arms, but laying in bed he looked pale, thin and emaciated. His beard, once long and auburn, was thin and streaked with yellow-gray hair. The crown of Duroton, a lithe weave of silver and gold braids that formed geometric patterns, seemed a heavy burden on his head. Etheil could see that the King was missing clumps of hair, and the few long cords that draped haggardly from his scalp gave him a ghastly appearance.

“My Liege,” said Etheil with concern, but the King waved his hand frantically as if shooing off any correspondence and began coughing again. The fit ended with him leaning over the bed and spitting. As the red, wet clump splattered on the floor, Etheil noticed a disturbing puddle of blood and phlegm there.

Etheil looked at Balin.

“King Garidrir has been this way for quite some time.” said Balin.

Etheil looked back at the King. “My Liege, if I had known…”

The King began coughing again but managed to bark out, “Enough…enough of your sympathies.” The King struggled to sit himself up in bed and Balin and Gefjon moved in to assist him. “Tell me,” said the King. He coughed as he settled into an upright position. “Tell me about my son.”

Etheil looked at the King quizzically. “My Liege?”

“My son Brandrir,” barked the King. He coughed and hacked and then leaned over and spat upon the floor, leaving another bloody clump in the puddle. “Tell me about him. Is he a good warrior? Does he lead men well?”

“A very good warrior,” said Etheil softly. “The men of the Grimwatch respect him. He leads them very well, my Liege.”

“And how often does he lead them?” cracked the King, looking at Etheil with those milky eyes.

Etheil felt a little confused by the question, but replied, “Every day, my Liege. Every day the men look to him.”

“So, every day there are battles?” barked the King before he started coughing again. He grunted and hacked and looked back at Etheil. “Every day there is a war in the north?” The King hacked and leaned over and spat a wet glob upon the floor. He took up a handful of the blankets by his side and wiped his mouth. He looked back at Etheil. “Every day the Kald attack the Grimwatch?”

“No, my Liege.” said Etheil softly.

“Oh,” croaked the king. “So he does not lead them every day?”

“Not to battle.”

“Oh, well, by the way Brandrir makes it sound he’s at war daily.” said the King becoming a little more animated in his bed. “Tell me, Etheil, what exactly is he doing up there on a daily basis? If he’s not at war, what’s he leading? What’s he fighting? How many…” the King began coughing. He barked out, “How many…” but then buckled over into a severe fit. Balin, Gefjon and the others moved in but the King flailed his hands as if to shoo them away. “Water!” he croaked between coughs. “Apollyon below, get me some water!”